


Letters From Home

by bookgazing



Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Boys Kissing, Family Feels, Fluff, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29695281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookgazing/pseuds/bookgazing
Summary: Letters from home can be worrying when your younger siblings are Great Detectives, but luckily Bertie and Harold have each other for support.
Relationships: Harold Mukherjee/Bertie Wells
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Letters From Home

'Post, Bertie!' calls Harold as he pushes into what is surely the untidiest room In Cambridge, and throws a bundle of letters on to an overcrowded, ink stained desk. He slams the door shut, and dips in for a quick kiss. The sun is shining in Cambridge, and he's in love with the most beautiful boy.

Bertie smiles into the kiss, and when they break apart the smile remains. 'I say, good timing, Harry! If I have to look at these books for one more second I shall simply expire.'

'If you'd looked at them more often earlier this term we could be on the river right now instead,' says Harold; affectionately tousling Bertie's hair in a way which makes Bertie light up, even under the grimace he affects. 'Sun in our faces, wind in our hair, little picnic basket - all that.'

'Yes, yes, I'm entirely to blame. Why, I remember just yesterday saying, entirely of my own volition, 'I absolutely must bike around Cambridge after midnight with a bottle of champagne in my basket until I find the perfect little riverside nook where I can look at the stars. All. By. My. Self.' ' He aims a stark and knowing glance at Harold. Their eyes lock. Harold blushes, and he laughs good-naturedly.

' _Once_ ,' he says as he dips his head a little; a light grin on his lips. 'I suggested that _once_.'

Bertie guffaws. 'Oh yes. And how could I forget last week when I said, right before I had that beastly essay due, 'Do you know, old chap, I'll close these books and we'll go climbing.' I seem to remember champagne and the stars were involved then too.'

'Alright, alright! You've made your point. Read your damn letters, and leave me alone.' 

Bertie flips through the pile of post, screwing his mouth up as he tosses aside an envelope addressed in slapdash cursive, and one in a plainer script; both on Fallingford stationary. A final envelope, stuffed and slightly grubby with a postmark that makes him frown, he puts aside carefully; smooths it out a little before he can leave it be. Harold puts his hand lightly on Bertie's shoulder, and squeezes gently. A cloud passes over the window, and the room briefly dims. 

Finally, he lights on an envelope written in a business-like hand; smudged and rather crumpled. 'What-ho, a missive from Squashy.' Bertie rips open the letter, and skims his eyes down the page cheerfully before letting out a slow groan.

'Daisy and Hazel have managed to get themselves involved in yet another crime. No murder this time, thank goodness. At least, not yet,' he murmurs. 'Just an heiress' cat, and a missing will. Oh, and something to do with a… no, that can't be right can it?' He waves the letter exasperatedly to encourage Harold to take a look.

Harold wraps his arms lightly around Bertie's shoulders, and leans in to read. He smiles ruefully. 'Just like the last letter I got from George. He and Alexander went off on what sounded like a perfectly normal school trip to the coast. Ices. Bathing. Bit of orientering, maybe.'

'Beach cricket,' chimes in Bertie. 'Donkeys. Picnics. Yes, sounds absolutely ripping.' 

'Yes, Bertie,' sighs Harold indulgently as he straightens up; used, by now, to how easily Bertie can be distracted by the promise of fun. 'All terribly jolly, and, crucially, safe. Except, well you know George and Alexander,' Harold huffs as he grabs the rickety chair opposite Bertie, and throws himself into it. 'According to the Head, they caught out their games master smuggling, and got locked in a, well, a sort of dungeon in a cave because, oh, _it just so happens_ , he was selling goods to a very dangerous criminal gang.' 

Bertie rolls his eyes. 'Of course he was! How have the blighters ended up in so many scrapes already? When I was their age, I'd never been in the middle of a crime in my life!'

He screws up his lips again in the little gesture that tears at Harold each time he sees it. 'And to be honest, I wish life had jolly well gone on that way,' he says, glancing briefly at the grimy letter he set aside; reaching out a hand to lift it a little before dropping it once again to the desk. 'And yet those four seem to positively seek danger out.' In disgust, he flings Daisy's letter on to the desk.

'Hard not to be quite proud at the same time though, isn't it?' says Harold tentatively. 'I mean, the boys escaped a whole gang of villains, and foiled their crime. And that's not even the first time they've uncovered a plot, or solved a mystery. And, when you think about what Daisy and Hazel have achieved. Well! If either of them were my sister I think I'd be just a little bit impressed.'

'Yes,' says Bertie thoughtfully. 'Of course, it's tremendous how brave Squashy is, and how many crooks they've put away. Although,' he says softly, his eyes lighting swiftly again on the troublesome letter on the corner of his desk, 'It would have been nice if one of them hadn't been my best friend, but they couldn't exactly help that could they. Still,' he continues in a more determined voice, 'It's not the kind of life one imagines for one's sister. Just think if something were to happen to her.' His head drops a little, and he tangles his hands in his hair as he tries very hard to block out the myriad 'things' that could 'happen' to a young girl investigating a serious crime.

Harold reaches over, and slowly strokes Bertie's knee. 

'I understand. Of course I do. A boy like George going around getting in the middle of crimes. It would only take one instant. One wrong place. One wrong time. One police officer who decides the colour of his skin means he's the obvious culprit. Of course, Father would fight for him, and we're in a better position than most. Even so, of course I worry.'

Abruptly, Harold jerks his hand from Bertie's knee, drops his gaze, and wrings his hands together hard and brisk; his own coping strategy for blocking out the vast array of ways life can go suddenly wrong for a British-Asian boy in England. And it's Bertie's turn to comfort: to move to sit at the foot of Harold's chair; to put his warm hands on Harold's knee; to quietly look up at him until Harold is ready to turn that first slightly unsteady look his way. 

'Ah well,' he says, attempting a wobbly smile. 'We'd better buck up, Bertie, or someone's sure to come in and find us crying into the carpet.'

'Yes, we'd never live that down,' Bertie says, rising from the floor. 'I tell you what though, I don't feel much like opening any more letters just now, or,' he says with great vehemence, 'Any more books. We need cheering up.'

'Oh, yes?' says George with a twinkle in his eye. 'And how do you think we might go about that?'

'Oh, I've a few ideas. Boating, ices...' 

But the expression of those excellent ideas would have to wait a while as Bertie's lips suddenly became very busy. The sun was shining in Cambridge, and he was in love with the most beautiful boy.


End file.
